


Star Trek Fic : Losing My Religion, Pike/Robau NC-17

by imachar



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a very unpleasant disaster-relief mission, Chris gets reacquainted with the captain of the USS Kelvin, and discovers that his Academy crush was well worth the wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Trek Fic : Losing My Religion, Pike/Robau NC-17

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zauzat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zauzat/gifts).



> **Disclaimer** : If you recognize it, it’s not mine.
> 
> **:A/N I** : This is a **very** belated birthday story for [](http://zauzat.livejournal.com/profile)[**zauzat**](http://zauzat.livejournal.com/) who once said she’d like to see Pike/Robau smut…sorry it took so long dear…
> 
> **A/N II** : This was originally going to be 2,000 words of porn, and then it got away from me and turned into 5400 words of angst and porn. It takes place a few weeks before the loss of the Kelvin, and obviously, since it’s canon, there is no way that it can’t be a little bittersweet…sorry. I might write an epilogue, but I’m not attaching it to this story so you don't have to deal with the feels if you don’t want to.
> 
> **Beta** : the wonderful [](http://abigail89.livejournal.com/profile)[**abigail89**](http://abigail89.livejournal.com/)

 

 

*****

The ash is falling thickly as Commander Christopher Pike steps away from the shuttlecraft and wipes the dust from his shoulder, greasy and warm, and he shudders at the knowledge that he’s breathing in the remains of four hundred thousand incinerated Federation colonists. Stepping up onto the remnants of a low wall, part of what had probably once been a shuttle maintenance shed, he grimaces at the sight of New Stambul, a gray and smoking ruin nestled in the shadow of a devastated volcanic cone. The settlers had been warned that the peaceful appearance of Mount Osman was deceptive, that there were unpredictable currents of magma beneath the surface of the planet that could erupt with little or no warning but, seduced by the rich volcanic soils and the reliable supply of melt water from the glaciers on the mountain’s flanks, they’d built their city on a time-bomb.

That had been one hundred and thirty-two years ago; in the intervening years the colony had thrived and Mount Osman hadn’t so much as rumbled until an earth tremor had lit up the seismic sensors six days ago. Setting in motion the city’s disaster mitigation plan, the colony administrator had issued a voluntary evacuation warning and had alerted the Federation. With no real sense of urgency behind the warning Starfleet had sent in a survey ship with a scientific assessment team to report back on the volatility of the situation. On the eastern slope of the volcano at the time of the eruption, there had only been time for one of the team to send an emergency distress call back to the orbiting USS Calvocoressi before the eight geophysicists and seismologists had been incinerated by the super-heated gas of a rapidly moving pyroclastic surge.

When the USS Kelvin arrived four hours later to assist in the rescue and recovery effort the crew of the Calvocoressi, including her young captain, were still stunned at the scale of the destruction on the surface and were scrambling to recalibrate their sensors, both ship based and portable, to detect life-signs that would be masked by the heat-signature of the very slowly cooling blanket of magma and ash that had mantled the ruins. The data supplied by the few surviving seismic sensors confirmed what Pike and his senior officers had witnessed from orbit; only seconds before the eruption blew the top off the mountain the city had been hit with a magnitude-9.3 earthquake. Minutes later the pyroclastic surge had raced down the mountain, incinerating anyone who had survived the initial devastation.

Now, fifteen hours later, the second of Reheboth II’s suns is slowly dipping below the horizon and Chris is about ready to call it a day and hand over command of his rescue and recovery squads to his science officer. Tired and filthy and utterly dejected at the hopeless task of trying to find survivors in the crumbling, cremated ruins of what had been a thriving, vibrant city, he opens his communicator to see that the rest of the day shift rescue and retrieval teams are also signing off. When he’s certain that the shift change is underway and everyone is accounted for, he sends a quick message to George Kirk, to confirm the 19:00 debrief meeting on the USS Kelvin with George’s captain.

That’s a little over an hour away and it should give Chris just enough time for a quick sonic shower, a change of uniform and maybe a mug of coffee and a sandwich, if he’s lucky. But on this mission at least, luck is in short supply and as he’s about to follow the last of the rescue crews into the body of the shuttle, the communicator he’s just stowed vibrates hard against his thigh. He waves at the shuttle pilot to begin the engine start checks and pulls the device out of its sealed field cover. It’s the Kelvin’s captain and the usually phlegmatic Richard Robau is looking just a fraction harassed.

“Commander, sorry to pull you in early, but Admiral Velazquez wants an update, I need you in my day cabin in fifteen minutes.” His voice is deeper than usual, rough with fatigue and the layered responsibilities of being the ranking officer on site, accountable to the rest of the Federation for how well Starfleet contains this disaster.

“Well, I sure wouldn’t want to keep an Admiral waiting.” There’s a wealth of sarcasm in Chris’s tone, but he lifts one corner of his mouth in a wry smile, just so Robau knows it’s not personal. “No time to clean up?”

“Sorry.” And Robau really does sound apologetic; his dark eyes warm with understanding and commiseration, knowing that dealing with an admiral is the last thing Chris needs after a day and a half of fruitless search and rescue. “He’s going to be on the comm in thirty minutes and I’d like to debrief you and George first.”

“Okay, you’re the boss.” Chris stretches and rubs a hand through his hair, sweeping out as much of the ash as he can and then sighs as he realizes that he’s going to have to catch a ride on a shuttle up to the Kelvin. “We still have no transporters, right?”

Robau shakes his head. “No, engineering is working on it, but there’s still too much interference from the magnetic distortions thrown up by the magma fields. I’ll have George swing by and pick you up.”

Chris nods, “Thanks, see you in a few.” And then flips the communicator channel to the waiting shuttle and waves at it to take off without him as he explains to the pilot. “Go on without me, I need to go to the Kelvin.”

****

It takes an irritatingly long-drawn-out thirty minutes to convince Admiral Velasquez that there’s no point in sending in more backup; the USS Jahangir has just left with the few survivors that want to be resettled off world and the crews of the Kelvin and Calvocoressi are more than capable of accomplishing the post-eruption scientific analysis and concluding the probably futile search for survivors. Eventually, just as Chris is starting to twitch at the feel of gritty ash crawling down the back of his neck, Robau gives a brief, slightly insouciant, salute. He’s clearly indicating that he’s done wasting time satisfying the Admiral’s curiosity and is about to sign off, when Velazquez frowns and holds up a hand.

“Just a minute, captain; I’d like Commander Pike to explain what happened with the science team.”

At the edge of his peripheral vision Chris catches Robau’s brief frown at the Admiral’s tone, which is anything but cordial, and his heart rate kicks up as he realizes that he’s unexpectedly the focus of Velazquez’ less-than-friendly attention. The full details of the loss of the geology team are in Chris’s log entry, which Velazquez has clearly already accessed; the fact that he wants clarification on something probably isn’t a good sign.

“What would you like to know, Admiral?” Chris has to resist the urge to scratch the grit that’s coating the back of his neck, fidgety with tension as Velazquez glares at him.

“I’d like to know how you managed to lose five seismologists and three geophysicists on a single mission.”

Chris ignores Robau’s surprised inhale and George’s much less subtle, sotto-voce mutter of “fucking asshole…” as he concentrates on keeping his composure, fighting back the nauseating sensation of vertigo as he’s reminded of the crew he’s lost in the last two days. “I’m sorry, Admiral. I thought the explanation I gave in my log entry was perfectly clear.”

“It is clear, I just don’t trust you that you’re telling the whole story. You can’t really expect us to believe that the team was caught completely by surprise.”

“Again, I’m sorry…” And Chris’s tone is beginning to suggest that he’s anything but sorry, which apparently amuses Robau because Chris can see the corner of his mouth twitching, “… but are you suggesting that our sensors on the Calvocoressi, obstructed by the planet’s atmospheric conditions, should have been providing more accurate data than the sensors of specialists on the surface with equipment that was taking direct readings of the impending eruption?”

There’s silence for a moment as Velazquez thinks of a comeback and then he manages a huffy, and rather snide, “Well, as we have no idea what the sensors on the ground were recording, I suppose we’ll have to take your word that there was no warning.”

“I think, sir, if you read the science officer’s log, you’ll find the seismic telemetry stream was uninterrupted right up to the moment when the surge destroyed the instruments. I’m sure the science staff at Command can explain it to you if you’re having trouble interpreting the data.” The only sign of Chris’s carefully controlled anger is the tight, clipped tone of his response – far too subtle a clue for Velazquez whom he’s never met in person – but Chris can feel the tension in the room, George actually uncomfortable enough to subconsciously ease into a parade rest even as Robau taps his fingers on his thigh in a nervous tic that Chris remembers from the Academy.

He should feel vindicated as Velazquez’ face goes dark with fury and he utters a curt sign off, the screen dissolving to the dark blue and silver of the Federation seal, but the only emotion that washes through Chris is a monumental sense of sorrow. He’s had his own ship for only three months, and he’s just lost eight crew-members in a single mission, a loss that would be devastating even for a seasoned commander and as the weight of that washes over him again his shoulders slump and he sighs heavily.

“Chris, sit.” Robau is a little terser than usual, but his tone isn’t unkind, and Chris turns away from the screen in time to watch the Kelvin’s captain pull three shot glasses and a bottle of something dark blue and unlabeled out of a storage locker. Saurian brandy. He’s not sure that’s going to be a good idea, but he doesn’t have the will or the energy to argue the point and he turns to the couch, gesturing for George to go ahead of him.

George demurs, with a distracted wave of his hand. “Sorry, I can’t stay. We’ve got a vid conference with Sam scheduled for 18:00; Win’ll kill me if I show up for it looking like this.” And he gestures to the full-body coating of mud and ash that he’s wearing over his field uniform.

The mood lightens at the mention of four-year-old Sam Kirk and Chris manages a small smile, “Say hi to him for me. Did he get the model of the NX-01 that I sent him from Starbase 143?”

“Yeah he loves it, or he would if Grandpa Samuel would let him play with it. The old man tries to keep it on his desk where he can look at it all day.”

“He’s not enjoying retirement?” Robau puts one of the glasses away and sets the other two on the low coffee table before tackling the complicated cork/wax seal on the bottle.

“Nah, he’s bored. He’s been offered a agricultural admin post on Tarsus IV, won’t surprise me if he takes it and turns the farm over to James for a couple of years.” George casts a slightly wistful look at the bottle in Robau’s hands and sighs dramatically. “But for now, I need to go make sure Win is okay, she hates these calls. Sam gets real upset when we have to sign off.” He chuffs a short rueful laugh. “Still, only a couple more of them and then we’ll all be home in time for the new one to keep us awake at night.”

Chris frowns, he’d known that Win was going back to an engineering design job at Riverside when the new baby arrived, but he’s surprised that George is also leaving the Kelvin. “You taking a new posting too?”

“Yeah, the Academy for a couple of years, until the kids are a little older.”

Robau interrupts to hand Chris a glass, now brimming with slightly viscous, spicy-sweet, liquid, and he cocks his head slightly as he asks, humour in his eyes. “You don’t want to give up command and come on as my new XO?” It should be funny; when Robau had been teaching Chris’s advanced tactical command class, he’d joked more than once that he’d only taken the Academy posting so he’d get a first look at the next generation of command-fodder, all the better to staff his own ships in the future.

But there’s no humour at all in Chris as he cuts back. “Don’t tempt me, on a day like today, I’m really not sure command is worth the cost.”

The mood turns somber and George pats Chris lightly on the back, “Gotta go, kid, see you soon, yeah?” And as he leaves Robau waves Chris to the couch.

Chris hesitates, conscious of his filthy state, and offers, “I should be going too, I could use a shower and I haven’t eaten a real meal in two days.” He pauses and goes on, with a slightly rueful laugh. “Not that the replicators on the Calvocoressi have ever been known to produce anything even close to a real meal”. Even as the words come out of his mouth Chris realizes he’s not-so-subtly angling for a dinner invitation, trying to avoid going back to his own ship where he’ll have to face writing up the mission report and rehash, once again, the loss of the seismic team.

Robau holds out a hand, forestalling any thought Chris has of actually heading for the door. “You’ve got time, Chris. Sit, relax, have a drink.”

And, grateful that Robau is pushing the issue, absolving him of a little of the guilt of relaxing while eight of his crew are lying in the morgue ante-chamber of the Calvocoressi’s medbay, Chris sits down and leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He stares at the shot glass in his hand for a long moment, trying to clear his head, trying not to think about the incinerated city on the planet surface, shuddering at the thought that some of the ash on his uniform is cremated colonists.

“You okay?” Robau breaks the silence before it gets too uncomfortable. “It’s never easy losing crew, especially like that.”

Chris looks up, and finds himself slightly embarrassed by the concern in Robau’s eyes. Still slightly insecure in his brief command tenure the concern unreasonably irritates him, but he bites back the initial inclination to shrug it off, to be glib and dismissive in the face of the Calvocoressi’s losses and just concedes,“Yeah, that was just a lot of unnecessary death and destruction to deal with in one day.”

“Yes, it will be a while, I think, before we know what the final numbers are.”

“Well, at least four hundred thousand dead; is that a new record for a Federation colony disaster?”

Robau raises one thick dark eyebrow and gives Chris a wry, slightly sad, smile. “Not by a long shot, it’s not even the worst _I’ve_ seen.” He takes a moment to fortify himself with a small sip of the Saurian brandy before he goes on. “I was second officer on the USS Rabindranath Tagore when we went to deliver anti-virals to Tierrasangre…” There’s brief hesitation as he has to think for a moment to dredge up the planet’s official designation “…Darius Beta IV…anyway, they had an outbreak of Esaurian hemorrhagic fever. By the time we got there 600,000 were already dead; the authorities were so overwhelmed the bodies were stacked up in warehouses.” He pauses, and Chris winces at the barely perceptible shudder that ripples through Robau’s broad frame. The EHF outbreak ended more than a decade ago, but it’s clear that for just a moment the memories are fresh and painful. “We burned corpses for weeks.”

“Fuck, that sounds like hell.” Chris wets his lips with a taste of the brandy and leans back against the stiff, unforgiving cushions of the couch, still unsettled and unsure of how to ask the question that’s been at the back of his mind since the moment the eruption data stream rolled across his bridge screen and the comms from the science team went suddenly, and ominously, silent. He takes a slightly more robust sip of the brandy and then, gathering his courage, asks, “Does it ever get easier?”

Robau takes a moment to think about his response and Chris watches him, briefly mesmerized by the way Robau chews his lower lip in concentration and taps his fingers on a broad thigh. He’s gratified that this captain, with more than a decade of command under his belt, is taking him seriously, but he’s not surprised; Chris has known Robau since the early days of his time at the Academy. He’s a good man, serious and thoughtful and infinitely kind.

“No,” He states finally, stretching long legs out in front of him and tilting his head to look seriously at Chris. “No, it doesn’t get better and, to be honest, Chris, it shouldn’t. If you ever get to a place where losing people doesn’t hurt like hell, where writing your next-of-kins is easy; then that’s the time to think about giving this up and going ashore.”

Chris feels his stomach clench as he remembers the previous morning, four hours at his desk as he agonized over the wording of eight different next-of-kin letters, to parents and spouses and, in the case of the senior geophysicist, a grown child. “Fuck, yeah,” he hesitates, wincing at the involuntary profanity, but Robau seems unfazed by it and Chris continues, a little surly in his misery. “No one trains you for writing those, there should be a fucking class at the Academy…” and he takes a sip of brandy to cover his discomfort.

Robau stretches again, fingers linked behind the smooth curve of his shaved skull and his voice is low and approving as he confirms, “But you _have_ written them, that’s good. Good praxis as a captain – write them as soon as you can after the event.”

The affirmation lifts Chris’s mood just a little and he nods, gratified at the approval. “Yeah, I did them when I went off shift yesterday – and my log is up to date, but I still have to finish the mission report for the last two days.”

“It can wait, stay for dinner. If you don’t want to face the commissary I can have the mess send us up something. What are you in the mood for?”

It’s clear that Robau has no intention of letting Chris leave while he’s still in this mood and he capitulates. “Something really spicy.” Before he hesitates, still very aware of the filth that’s covering him. “But I should probably go have a shower and come back, sir.”

“We’re off shift, Chris – Rick is just fine.” There’s a wry twist to Rick’s smile, a hint of something almost roguish in his eyes, and a little spark of interest flares in Chris’s chest. A long time ago he’d made a pass at this man – when he’d been young and stupid and cocky and had assumed that no one could resist the charms of his pretty blond 18-year-old self – and the firm, if not unkind, rejection had always left him wondering if it was circumstance rather than absence of interest that had made Rick turn him away. Eight years later, Chris is still interested and the thought occurs to him that circumstances might have changed, and perhaps there’s a subtle offer here that isn’t just about dinner.

“Noted, but I still need a shower, _Rick._ ” He lets his voice drop a half tone on the name, letting the sound of it linger for a second even as he gestures to his uniform.

He gets a smile and a cocked eyebrow in return, Rick’s dark eyes merry and mischievous as they scan Chris from head to toe. “Use mine, we’ve got real water on the Kelvin. Have your yeoman send over a change of clothes and you can take care of it while the mess is preparing dinner.”

Yes, apparently possibly-getting-laid-tonight is the game they are playing here and the spark of interest flares a little higher, the tight clench of muscles in Chris’s abdomen a sudden reminder that he hasn’t had sex with an actual living, breathing, sentient being in far too damn long. “Okay, let me call Adler and have him send over my away-kit.”

While he’s thumbing open his comm, Rick offers a refill on Chris’s drink; he refuses with a wave of his hand. “I don’t think more alcohol is a good idea right now, do you?

Risk retracts the bottle and grins. “Smart boy.”

Chris laughs quietly and the response that’s on the tip of his tongue is cut off as the comm is picked up, and he motions for silence while he explains to his yeoman that he needs the small duffle with his away-team kit in it sent over to the Kelvin. When he’s done and the comm is closed he grins cheekily at Rick, and shifts to let his long legs fall open a little, emphasizing the tight stretch of the uniform fabric across his groin. “Not a boy anymore.”

He gets a hearty, genuine laugh in return as Rick’s eyes drop to focus on the well-defined shape of Chris’s only-just-beginning-to-firm-up erection “No, you aren’t, are you?”

“Jesus…” Chris laughs a little ruefully, “…we went from maudlin to unsubtle really fucking fast, didn’t we?”

“You will learn, my young captain, that there’s no time to fuck around with subtle in this business. Tomorrow night we’ll be in different sectors, if you want this to happen, it has to happen now.”

“Now?”

“No, not now as in _now_ , now as in, after you are clean and fed…go on, shower.”

*****

The shower is bliss, long and hot and blessed with the kind of water pressure Chris hasn’t felt in weeks. Still, as much as he might like to linger, the imminent likelihood of sex with someone he actually knows and likes has him clean and dry and dressed in under five minutes. Back out in the main cabin Rick has used the time to change out of his uniform and he’s sitting in front of the low coffee table in a loose linen shirt and jeans, contemplating two bowls of pad Thai and a couple of long, tall glasses of pale lager. He looks up as Chris pads barefoot across the floor and tilts his head, “Better?” concern and curiosity and undisguised affection in his eyes.

“You have no idea.” Chris stretches, aware that his t-shirt is riding up to expose an expanse of pale, muscled abdomen, gratified at the hum of appreciation that he gets in return, his cock twitching just a fraction at the confirmation of where the evening will end.

As hungry as he is Chris devours the spicy noodles and chicken in half the time it takes Rick and when he’s done he sits back with his beer to spend a few moments watching the Kelvin’s captain. He’s barely changed since the last time they saw each other at Chris’s graduation almost five years ago, maybe a fraction heavier with a hint of gray in the thick, dark curls that are escaping through the open V of his pale cream linen shirt. Shorter than Chris by a few centimeters, Rick is easily as heavily built and Chris makes no attempt to hide his appreciation at the flex of shoulders and biceps as Rick reaches for his beer.

“Enjoying the view?” Rick smiles wickedly even as he’s draining the last of the lager.

Chris grins, utterly shameless “Very much. You aren’t any less distracting now than you were when you taught Advanced Principles of Command.”

“That was your senior year, you were getting laid by everything in the graduating class. Why were you even looking at me?” Rick lays the glass down on the coffee table and holds out a hand to Chris, an invitation to join him on the other couch.

“Because you were un-fucking-believably sexy.” Chris takes the offered hand but instead of sitting he leans back and tugs, encouraging Rick to stand and gets a quizzical look even as Rick pushes himself up off the couch. “And you still are, and if I’m finally going to get the chance to jump you, I want a bunk.”

“What, you think I’m too old for sex on the couch?”

Chris grins, all confident impudence. “For the kind of sex I’m planning, even _I’m_ too fucking old for the couch.” He pulls Rick flush against his body and they wrap close for a moment, Chris curling one hand around the back of Rick’s neck, stroking his fingers across the smooth skin at the base of his skull. And then they are leaning into each other, foreheads touching, eyes closed and Chris feels the tension in the moment right before they kiss, the air charged with heat and the electric thrill of impending sex.

The kiss is sweeter than Chris expects, a long, slow, tease that culminates in a deep, slick exploration, all heat and desire, with none of the testosterone-fueled play for dominance that he’s come to expect when fucking other men. Unwilling to compromise his career by risking even the hint of a relationship he’s had a decade of one-night-stands with strangers and friends-with-benefits deals with other competitive young Starfleet officers – years of fast, athletic fuck sessions, wild and fun and hell on the furniture.

But even as he leans into Rick’s body, and feels the solid thrum of a steady heartbeat against his chest Chris knows that this will be something different. There’s too much history between them, too much respect and affection from those years at the Academy when – for all Chris’s not-so-secret crush on the man – Rick had guided and counseled and advised and generally made sure that Chris made it through his four years without going off the rails in the kind of spectacular way that only the brightest and best of Starfleet’s recruits were capable of.

They come out of the kiss slowly, and by the time Rick curls his fingers into Chris’s hair and tugs his head back, Chris is hard and aching and desperate for more.

“Bed, please…” his breath coming in sharp inhales, Chris is gratified at the flush on Rick’s dark cheeks, and the way he bites his lower lip, eyes huge and dark with reciprocated lust.

“Yes…”

There’s very little foreplay. Chris hasn’t had sex in two months and he’s pretty sure Rick’s coming off an even longer dry spell, and they shed clothes in a trail from the main cabin all the way to Rick’s bunk. Chris gets there first, sprawling down on his back on the surprisingly comfortable mattress and then grinning up at Rick and flipping onto his stomach. As much as Chris loves to top, tonight he’s consumed with the need to be fucked, to be stretched and filled and nailed to the mattress, to feel the power of another body within his own, moving hard and fast until he can forget the hell of the last few days, at least for a while.

“Is that a hint?” There’s the barest trace of humour buried beneath the raw breathless need in Rick’s voice and Chris can feel the eagerness vibrating through him as a warm hand rubs gently down the curve of his spine and over the rise of his ass.

“Yeah, fuck me…” Chris turns his head, and looks up in the semi-dark to see the Kelvin’s captain looking down at him with a kind of predatory awe and he flexes his spine and lowers his head with a sly grin, “…please.”

For all their mutual eagerness, Rick is gentle in his haste to prepare Chris; his hands broad, with strong, thick fingers that make Chris groan as the first – slick and slow – presses deep. Shifting so that he can maintain the friction of his cock against the sheet even as he spreads his legs a little wider, Chris shudders as Rick’s fingers finally hit their target and press down firmly on his prostate and when he catches his breath he gasps, breathless and imperious as the need for more becomes overwhelming. “Fuck me, Rick…now….”

The feel of the broad body on top of him his almost enough to get Chris off. Sweet, sharp sparks of sensation firing along his nerves at the brush of thick chest hair and the flex of strong muscles as Rick pushes deep and fucks in a slow, steady rhythm; shivering at the humid whisper of breath on the back of his neck and the sound of Rick groaning with each thrust. But it’s only when he gets his knees under him, pushing up to give Rick a better angle, whimpering at the inexorable friction of a thick cock inside his body, that he feels the orgasm gather momentum. Only when he quakes at the tight heat and persistent, accurate slide over his prostate that makes every nerve ending spark and glow, does he feel his breath start to hitch, gasping for air as his heart hammers with the impending climax. And then, finally, only when Rick slides a hand into the space between his body and the mattress and wraps his cock tight for three fast, hard strokes does Chris comes all over Rick’s fingers in a single aching pulse of slippery heat. And as he’s coming down from it, his synapses fried, his body going lax and limp, he has just enough awareness to hear the gasp of a whispered profanity, to sense the stuttering shudder of the body above him as Rick comes apart in a series of slick, wet spasms as he spends himself deep inside Chris’s body.

*****

“I really do need to get back to my own ship.” He’s not sure how many hours have past, but, sprawled on his stomach, lazy and comfortable, his entire body still lax with post-coital content as Rick strokes a slow rhythm up and down his spine, Chris is pretty sure he should have been back on the Calvocoressi a while ago, probably somewhere between his first and second orgasm.

“Why? You’re off shift for another six hours, just sleep here.” The hand pauses and strong fingers curl into Chris’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp in a way that makes Chris groan and wrap himself tighter around the pillow. He has absolutely no desire to go anywhere right now and duty-be-damned he’s tempted to take Rick up on the offer to stay until morning.

“What if….”

“What if nothing, if someone needs you they know where you are.”

“Yeah, about that…” Chris finally gets up the energy to roll over, making a space for Rick to lie down next to him as he pulls the covers up from the bottom of the bunk and they end up on their sides, face to face, defenses down as Chris goes on, “…are we, is this…?” He’s rarely this inarticulate and he pauses, grateful that Rick is neither laughing at him, nor finishing the thought for him, and then starts over. “Is this just a one-night stress relief fuck, or can we do this again sometime?” He’s always been told that he’s possessed of unusual courage, but as the words come out in a rush, Chris thinks that might have been the bravest thing he’s ever done and his heart stops for a moment as Rick smiles, his eyes bright with promise.

“Anytime, Chris, anytime.” He brushes one finger lightly over Chris’s cheek and then strokes a stray curl off his forehead before he adds a wry coda, “Notwithstanding the complications of different ships and different patrol sectors, it’s probably going to be months before we’re in the same place again.”

“I can wait.” Chris settles a little more comfortably onto the bunk, letting his legs tangle with Rick’s, relaxing against the now familiar heat and bulk of the man beside him as he tucks his face into the space under Rick’s chin and enjoys the sensation of gentle, clever fingers stroking through his hair.

“Now get some sleep, I’ll wake you in time for breakfast before you go back on shift.”

_fin_

 

 


End file.
